He climbed. His sword broke. His left hand stopped projecting the UI. All he had was a blunt shard of metal and the memory of Mira’s voice: Don’t let the game win.

“Then play me.” The boy smiled. “One game. If you win, you leave. If you lose… you become a good new level for someone else.” The game was simple. Two paddles. A bouncing ball. Pong.

Elias stopped trying to win. He closed his eyes and played the way he had as a child—not for victory, but for joy. He imagined the ball was sunlight. He imagined the paddle was his hand reaching out.

“That’s a dead format,” the vendor said, not looking up from his phone. “Take it for a dollar.”

“See anything you like?” the boy asked.